LITMIR.BIZ

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notices me he offers a quizzical gaze.

      “He’s downstairs,” I say, “in my bed.”

      Barry places his hands on my shoulders and says, “You’ll have to forgive him. He’s not all there in the head and tends to forget where he is.” He leads me to the garage with a hand on my back. “I wouldn’t worry. He’s far from a threat.”

      I give Barry the benefit of the doubt, but I don’t say a word. I don’t know about Nathan’s health conditions, and can’t feel too upset since he didn’t do anything but sleep. Sister Alice says life is full of unplanned discomforts, so I forgive him as I expect Sister Alice would.

      When Barry heads downstairs to gather his father, I find something of interest in a lidless kitchen garbage pail. Beneath a wet coffee filter is the latest Newsday. On the cover is a photo of Detective Morris, the policeman who spoke to me when I found Bryan’s savaged body. While Nathan is taken upstairs, I slip the paper under my shirt and take it down to my room.

      The main article clarifies what I already know. The police department has yet to disclose any clues or leads that might tie the murders to a suspect. Detective Morris is under public scrutiny for his inability to set anyone at ease. Answering “no comment” to almost every question is angering the already frightened community. Sales of guns, home security systems, and guard dogs have spiked over the past few weeks. Citizens are begging for a new detective to take on the case, as they find Morris wholly incompetent.

      I think they’re too hard on him. When we met he appeared concerned for my well-being; he told me I had witnessed a scene more brutal than any he’s ever encountered before. At one point he excused himself to the bathroom, where he must have cried since he came out with swollen, bloodshot eyes. He promised me he’d catch the killer by any means necessary, but those means are eluding him.

      After flipping through the rest of the paper, which ends with the Mets’ three game losing streak, I call the group home and hang up on a busy signal. I head out back to see what the boys are up to and find Dennis in the pool. As I approach, Jeremy rises from the depths and blows water from his nose. He then says to me: “Why the long face, slut? Couldn’t get the geezer off?” He laughs hard, but the sound doesn’t relate to humor. My eyes start to burn as tears fill the ducts. Crying, even in the most minimal sense, often feeds the wretchedness of people like Jeremy, so I look into a sandy foot bath near the pool and try not to blink.

      Dennis bobs closer to me and leans his arms against the aluminum ledge. “Ignore him,” he says, “no one else thinks it’s funny. Nathan has issues.” I look at him with appreciation just as Jeremy slides an arm’s length of cold water at me. My breath is immediately seized. Jeremy laughs so hard he begins to choke. Undeserving of such treatment, I return downstairs, drop face first into my pillow, and don’t expect to hear from anyone until dinner.

      At half past two, a light knock sounds on my door, to which I reply, “Come in.”

      Dennis enters and closes the door behind himself, probably so he can be heard over Jeremy’s heavy metal. “I’m heading out for a bit,” he says. “Jeremy will probably blast music the rest of the day. The pool is all yours.”

      “Where are you going?”

      “A place you’re not allowed to go to. We were told not to bring you anywhere.”

      “I’m not a prisoner. And I can’t sit still without thinking horrible thoughts about those kids. I need to get out of here.” I look directly into his forlorn hazel eyes and clasp my hands. “Please?”

      Dennis bites his upper lip while bouncing his head from side to side, then says in surrender, “It’s only two miles away. If we hurry we can make it back before anyone knows you left.”

      I stand up and put on my Keds.

      Though Jeremy is screaming along to his music, Dennis says he has a sense for knowing when something fun is happening without him, so we creep up to the garage and quietly wheel out the two bicycles. “You can take mine,” Dennis says, “I’ll use his.”

      Their bikes are nearly identical, and only slightly different than the one I grew up with. The top crossbar doesn’t dip and the brakes aren’t pedal operated, but I’m sure I’ll adapt. I’m getting used to adapting.

      Dennis initially rides hard and puts twenty yards between us, but when we reach a safe distance from the house he slows down so I can catch up. When side-by-side I ask, “Where are we going?”

      “To the greatest place in creation,” he replies.

      “Can you be more specific?”

      “Can I ask you something personal first?”

      “Let me guess, how did I become an orphan?”

      “I was wondering about something darker. You come from a place named after a priest where kids were killed, yet I saw you sign the cross three times last night. I’m not sure I’d still worship the one who let that happen.”

      “God didn’t kill anyone.”

      “He also didn’t catch anyone.”

      I don’t know how to respond because his point has been bothering me too. That vulnerable children were murdered is troubling enough, but that the murderer continues to roam free doesn’t seem fair. Changing the subject I ask, “Where are you taking me?”

      “My sanctuary.” He gives me a wink and peddles faster. I keep pace, but allow him to take the lead when we reach a busy highway with a narrow sidewalk. Dennis leads me to an area where two lanes become four, the traffic lights multiply, and the speed limit increases. Sister Alice would forbid me to go anywhere near such a dangerous area, but I feel safe with Dennis. He seems to have made the trip many times before, and never does anything rash like cross a street without looking both ways, or ride through lanes that have green lights.

      When we stop at an intersection and wait for traffic to pass, the windless heat catches up to me. We must have traveled well over a mile, and I can only hope our destination is near, as the sun is boiling me toward a stroke. After reaching a stretch that’s clogged with fast food restaurants, car dealerships, and private businesses, we coast into a parking lot that contains a small row of mom and pop stores. One of them is called 112 Video World. We climb off our bikes and lean them against the front window. Dennis chains them together, wipes sweat off his forehead with his sleeve, and opens the door for me.

      I step into the cold wonder of air conditioning with a massive sigh of relief. Dennis has an equal reaction, but I don’t think it’s related to the temperature dip. His sanctuary consists of rental movies that are packed top to bottom on wide shelving units. Packaged toys, comic books, and movie memorabilia cover every wall and ledge. The place looks like his room, only bigger.

      A flat screen television is airing a movie where one boy is helping another out from a pit of pint-sized creatures, but Dennis has no interest in it. He puts his hands on my shoulders and steers me toward the DVD horror section.

      “I didn’t think this many movies existed,” I say. “Have you seen them all?”

      “Don’t I wish,” he replies.

      A young woman in a blue flannel shirt and yellow sweatpants walks out from a back room with a box of receipt paper. For some reason she’s barefoot. She playfully nudges Dennis when passing him and says, “Anything specific today?”

      “Nah. Just showing Robin your holy establishment.”

      “Don’t let him warp you too much,” the clerk says to me. When she walks behind the counter and starts fiddling with the receipt machine, I step closer to Dennis who’s squatting before the C titles.

      “How do you figure out which ones to pick?” I ask.

      “I start with something random and build a double feature,” he replies. “Two with ‘massacre’ in the title, two with meat cleavers on the cover, that kind of thing.”

      “What’s

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